Let the Game Begin
by Alpha Hydra
Summary: Then he understood. This was a game to him. Well if Christophe wanted to play, then Gregory would indulge him. After all, Gregory always won. SLASH Rated for violence, language, and mature sexual content in later ch. Gregory/TheMole full summary inside
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **South Park and all related characters, places and things are property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. I don't own them, or Brazil, or anything really... except for maybe the plot. Not making any money off of this or any such nonsense.

**Summary: ** It's been five years since Gregory last saw Christophe. But now, they find themselves on opposing sides of a conflict, and neither wants to lose the game. The stakes are too high for them to gamble on, but that's just what they have to do to survive. SLASH Greg/Mole, Christophe/Gregory, Christophe/OC. This fic will probably contain mature sexual content later on too.

**A/N:** Decided that this place needed a lot more Gregory/the mole. Because seriously? They kick ass. Ok, so, rated for violence, swearing, slash in later chapters and general awesomeness. If the slash bothers you, well, I guess you shouldn't read.

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Gregory stood in a dank, dimly lit alleyway, his crisp brown coat stifling him. It was humid at this time of night, especially at this time of the year. Now, however, was not the time to worry about his own comfort. No, now it was the time when appearances mattered. This moment was key in any sudden union of power. He had to look perfect, intimidating, immovable if there was even a slight chance the Brazilian rebels would yield to his authority. From the first moment the Brazilians laid eyes on him, they would be analyzing him, cataloging his apparent strengths and weaknesses for future use. It was imperative that Gregory appear to have no weaknesses.

This was his life, and he couldn't say that he hated it. He was not The Mole, who still worked but only did so for the money. No, what Gregory did, he did because he felt it was the right thing to do. He rapped on the door quietly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as a weak lamp flickered to life above his head.

Gregory heard several locks fall heavily out of place, and the door was opened just enough to let a sliver of light fall upon the greasy dirt around them.

"Ah, Gregory," a cold voice nearly whispered from behind the door. "Were you followed?"

"No."

"Good."

The door opened enough to let Gregory slip inside, and was locked quickly as he surveyed the room. Out of years of habit, Gregory's eyes searched out any possible means of escape, should his negotiations go awry. A small, barred window sat innocently towards the back of the room, swathed in darkness. That would be of no use to him. There were two other doors that led to various parts of the building, both covered with heavy black sheets. He guessed that the door immediately to his right would lead him deeper into the building, should he need to hide, and that the entranceway at the farthest end of the room might lead to an emergency escape route. Every hideout needed one.

Satisfied, he turned back to the man at the door, his left hand finding relief in the cool metal gun in his pocket. Every rebel needed one.

Nine men, each holding a large black gun close to his chest like a child, stood around the room in a loose semi-circle, eying Gregory suspiciously. Gregory took a deep breath, relishing in the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

"Let me be blunt," he said after a fairly dramatic pause. "You asked for my help, and now I'm here. What is it that you need of me?"

No one around him spoke for a moment; they continued to watch him with distrust in their eyes. Gregory could see the swirling clouds of doubt begin to unfurl in their eyes, and he suppressed a smirk.

"_That's him?" _one of the men asked suddenly in Portuguese.

Gregory tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket. He was lucky so many thought he was a naïve Englishman who didn't know anything. Everyone he worked with underestimated him. So, despite the fact that he had been in Brazil for nearly four months, those he worked with still assumed he knew no Portuguese. Well, it was their fault for assuming.

"_Yes,"_ the man at the door replied, coming to stand beside Gregory.

"_But he's only a boy!"_ someone else said.

The others nodded in agreement. Gregory fought the urge to roll his eyes. It was true, Gregory had only just turned 19 several months ago, but he that had never stood in his way before. He was good at what he did; he needed to be to stay alive.

"_Is that a problem?"_ Gregory answered quietly in Portuguese.

The others all gave a start of surprise, as if having forgotten Gregory was still in the room.

"Of course not," the man at the door said, his thick accent coiling around his words. Gregory supposed he was probably the ring leader of this group, as the others yielded to the glare he sent them.

"Good," Gregory responded coolly. "Now, let me ask again. What do you need me for?"

"The French Guyanese government has set up blockades around our key entrance points," the leader of them said. "We need you and your men to secure a new, safe passage into the country so we can continue."

Gregory said nothing. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed them across his chest. These smuggling groups would illegally mine gold out of French Guiana and then sell it on the black market to help the Brazilian working class. Gregory knew about them, had helped on several occasions when he thought that the people of Brazil did indeed deserve better than what their government could afford. It didn't seem too difficult to get through the Guiana/Brazil border. But still...

"What would we get in return?"

Someone in the crowd, a short man with greasy black hair and a white shirt yellowed with age, stepped forward angrily.

"You will get to live another day!" he said, flushing with anger.

Some of the others murmured their assent. This time, Gregory did allow himself to raise his eyebrow skeptically.

"Do you think your threats scare me?" he asked calmly.

Their anger seemed to deflate at his words, as if feeding off his fear and dying when it realized that there was none.

"We can supply you with firepower," the leader said. "With places to hide from the government while in Brazil. We have powerful connections."

"I see," Gregory said, staring out the window while weighing his possibilities. "All right then."

Then he saw it. A tiny flash of the weak light of _something_, sparking to life for a few brief seconds before getting swallowed up by the darkness of the night. It was tiny and faint, probably no more than a small flame igniting hundreds of yards away, but it was enough to make Gregory suspicious. No one else noticed it, however, and the leader of the smuggling ring began to lay out the details for Gregory quickly.

Gregory moved away from the window, his mind spinning, the inexplicable flare of light tugging at long forgotten memories. Where had he seen something like that before? He only half-heartedly listened to the Brazilians as he pondered this. It seemed so crucial that he remember where and when that small, flickering flame had been important in his lifetime. But his life felt so long already, stretching into eternity and countless countries. It could have been anywhere in the world—

And suddenly, he recognized it. It was the light from a _lighter_. Gregory felt the color drain from his face.

"Our location has been compromised," he said suddenly, interrupting them as the people around him spoke strategy.

They turned to look at him one by one, all with questions plastered across their faces. If his heart had not been pounding in his chest, he would have answered them all.

"What do you mean?" one of them asked.

"We must leave," Gregory continued urgently, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Quickly."

But at that moment, a shot rang through the room, coming from the unobtrusive window. The man just to Gregory's right fell, without so much as a yell; the bullet had pierced his skull. Everyone else in the room cursed and cocked their guns, pointing them wildly in all directions.

"Go," Gregory ordered. "I must get to my own people. It could be very possible that whoever this is has found my quarters as well.

Another shot rang through the silence, this time hitting one of the men in the thigh. He cried out in pain and fell to the floor, blood splattering everywhere. One of the others ran to the window and began shooting blindly into the night.

"No you fool!" Gregory shouted, moving to pull him away from the window.

But in the few seconds the man took to reload his gun, another shot rang out, and he slumped to the floor, dead. Blood was pooling around their feet now, and the Brazilians were beginning to panic.

"Just get out of here," Gregory said again, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Go to some other secure location. I will find you in five days' time."

"He's right," the leader said, looking lost without a gun in his hands. "We need to get out of here!"

The other seven nodded and ran to one of the entrance ways, disappearing behind the thick curtain one by one. Gregory quickly unlocked the door and stepped into the unremitting Brazilian night. Then he ran.

He knew this city well by now, knew its dirty streets and its complicated back routes. Within seconds, he was swallowed up by the darkness, safe for now. He slowed to a walk, backtracking his steps to confuse anyone who might be following.

There were still a few hours left until the sunrise, and Gregory knew from experience this was the most dangerous time of night to be out. It wasn't just that vagabonds patrolled the streets at this time of night, looking for anyone they might be able to steal a quick buck from. No, it was much more than that. Gregory knew he had a price on his head.

That hadn't really bothered him before, until tonight. Because he knew with certainty who had shot at them that night. What he didn't know was if he had been hired by someone to kill the smugglers, or to kill Gregory.

Either way, it was sure to be a wonderful reunion with his old associate when they did at last meet.

Gregory had not seen nor spoken to Christophe in almost five years, when they had both been transferred to schools on opposite sides of the world. It had always been a lame excuse for their next missions, but was only a half-lie really. Christophe had gone to Israel to help fight the Palestines in eighth grade, and that same year the Mole had gone to America to assassinate a federal agent for several thousand dollars.

He had heard about the Mole during his reconnaissance work. Their circles of communication would obviously overlap sometime or another. He would have to stifle his amusement when he heard grown men and hardened criminals speak of 'The Mole' with fear. Rumor had it that he was in Brazil, and now, Gregory knew those rumors were true.

He was pulled out of his musings by the sound of faint footsteps falling in time with his own. To anyone else, they would have sounded like an echo, but Gregory knew his old friend too well. He stopped.

"I know you're there Christophe," he said into the darkness. "Don't play these games with me."

There was a breathless moment when Gregory thought that perhaps it wasn't Christophe, but then he heard an unmistakable laugh, unchanged after five years. From behind him, he heard something jump and land onto the floor heavily.

"Your ears are too sharp for your own good, Gregory," Christophe said, his accent peppering his words the way Gregory remembered.

"Perhaps," he answered, turning and coming face to face with a ghost from his past.

Christophe looked much the same as Gregory had remembered him. His brown hair stood up on end, probably held together with dirt and blood instead of gel. His dark eyes looked more tired than he remembered, but Gregory supposed that his did too. Christophe was swathed in black, his old shovel still firmly strapped across his back. In one hand, he held a sniper rifle loosely and in the other, an unlit cigarette.

"Eet has been too long," Christophe said after a long pause.

"Indeed it has been," Gregory answered. He smiled. "So tell me, how did you end up down here?"

Christophe smirked.

"Eef I told you that, mon ami, I'd have to kill you."

"Oh, of course," Gregory answered. "You know, I've heard rumors about the mysterious Mole, who only appears at night and whose soul purpose in life is to kill."

Christophe raised an eyebrow, sticking his cigarette into his mouth and searching his pockets for his lighter before answering.

"Is zat so?" he asked, lighting up quickly and taking a drag. Smoke curled up around him in soft tendrils, drifting off into the night without a care. "And have you told zose beetches you have known zis mysterious man?"

"No. It doesn't matter to them."

Christophe nodded in response. Silence settled over them again, with the Mole only inhaling deeply every now and again for a fresh dose of nicotine.

"Did you complete your assignment?" he asked suddenly. The Mole turned his sharp, calculating eyes back onto Gregory.

"Non," he answered finally. "Zey escaped."

"I see, and you decided to follow me instead for a nice reunion? Mole, I'm flattered."

Christophe rolled his eyes even as he smiled. However, the look quickly soured.

"Gregory, we are on opposite sides of ze battle now," he said. "I was hired to keep ze Brazilian beetches out of French Guiana."

Gregory heard the implied warning as clearly as if it had been shouted.

"I understand."

Christophe smirked.

"Good," he said. "Zen I must stalk you anuzzer day zen."

With that he pulled out a small metal grenade from his pocket. Gregory knew in an instant it was full of tear gas.

"Bon soir, mon ami."

With that, he pulled the trigger and dropped it to the ground at their feet. Neither boy moved for a moment, staring at each other from opposite ends of the grenade. It wasn't until the grenade made a strange hiss and started to quickly disburse the gas that Gregory had to cover his face and run off. The Mole disappeared into the night.

Coughing and eyes watering, Gregory knew that he couldn't go back to his premises, not with Christophe still lurking around. He would be looking for Gregory and his people; that was a certainty now. _I must stalk you another day then._ Then he had probably already moved on to try to locate the actual smugglers, but Gregory could not take that sort of chance.

Gregory remembered that smirk on The Mole's face right before he dropped the tear gas, and suddenly, he understood. This was a game to him. Christophe, after years of having only money as a motivator for loyalty, had found a way to keep himself interested in his mercenary jobs. Christophe was playing a game with him, giving Gregory just enough information to be on his toes, to possibly make this assignment difficult.

Gregory roughly ripped off a long sliver of his crisp white shirt and wrapped it around his mouth and nose like a mask. Then, with one last deep breath, he stepped into the murky gray fog.

Gregory's foot crunched over something small and plastic as he ran through the fog, and when he pulled it up quickly for inspection, found that it was Christophe's lighter, probably thrown onto the ground with all the purpose as the gas bomb.

Well, if Christophe wanted to play, then Gregory would indulge him in this game. He clenched his fist around the lighter and started to run again. After all, Gregory_ always_ won.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **South Park and all related characters, places and things are property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. I don't own them, or Brazil, or anything really... except for maybe the plot. Not making any money off of this or any such nonsense.

**A/N:** Ok, so remember how earlier I said this fic was rated M for language, violence and mature sexual content? Well, this is the 'violence' part of my rating. Like seriously. There's a lot of blood and stuff going on here. If you can't handle that, well, I don't know what to tell you. And it's kinda short too; sorry about that. :(

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If there was one thing that Gregory could never forget about his 'business associate-turned friend', it was the fact that he carried out his missions with the cold efficiency that was demanded of him. The next night, Gregory had evacuated his old headquarters for somewhere completely different, leaving two foot soldiers behind as lookouts.

Two nights later, Gregory found them both dead at the old building, a pair of blood soaked cigarettes hanging off their stiff fingers. He would have laughed at the sight if it hadn't worried him so much. Gregory was taking no chances. He alternated his meeting places between the three most unknown locations that he had, unwilling to take even the slightest chance at compromising their location again.

When it came time for Gregory to speak with the Brazilian smugglers again, he wasn't sure what to expect. The leader, Faro his name turned out to be, had found out who the Guyanese sympathizers had hired, and immediately put out a search for the best assassin in the country. The Mole, he had said, was as good as dead.

Somehow, Gregory didn't think it would be so simple.

But they couldn't dwell on the fact that French Guiana had decided to retaliate. After a week, Gregory had found a relatively safe route through Brazil and across the river that separated the two countries.

It was Saturday night when he took a small group of them across the border, each one casting weary looks into the dark underbrush around them. Gregory knew that apart from the Christophe problem, there were still hundreds of enemy soldiers and officers patrolling the border. When they reached the river, Gregory motioned for them all to stop.

"This is as far as I go," he said. "I have a man waiting for you three kilometers west from here. He will take you safely to the mines."

Faro nodded, turning to the other four in the group gravely.

"Armando, Henrique and Cristovao, you come with me. Manuel, go with Gregory."

They all nodded, clenching their shotguns tightly. Manuel, a lanky, balding man with a crooked nose, took a step back from the crowd and watched them all, detached. Faro sent an ironic smile to Gregory.

"Just to make sure you get back safely, I assure you," Faro said.

"Of course," Gregory lied, checking the surrounding flatland quickly.

He knew that no one liked to fully trust a foreigner like Gregory for too long. If he could prove himself to be trustworthy during this first mission, then Faro would most likely employ his men for more efficient tasks. Until then, however, Gregory would have to resign himself to being babysat. Faro led his men into the muddy water of the Rio Oiapoque as quietly as they could.

Gregory watched them until they were safely on the other side of the river and swallowed up by the trees.

"Come on then," he said, turning away from the river.

Manuel laughed.

"I don't think so Gregory," he said, and cocked his gun. "This is as far as you'll go."

Gregory felt his heartbeat quicken, his natural instincts to fight kicking in. He watched Manuel crucially.

"Is that so?" he asked coolly, careful to keep any emotion from his face. "What makes you think that?"

Again, Manuel laughed, causing the tiny hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"You've got quite a price on your head boy," he sneered. "You think none of us noticed? I was just smart enough to call up a few foreigners."

Gregory said nothing; he was thinking fast. His gun was in a holster around his ankle, and while Gregory was probably fast enough to pull it out and shoot Manuel before he even thought about pulling the trigger, Gregory had the mission to think of. If a gunshot was heard, they'd give away Faro's position. And no matter what Gregory thought of this greedy rat, he himself was no betrayer.

There was a small dagger in a holster on his arm; it'd have to do.

Manuel aimed his gun at Gregory.

"Walk," he commanded, his tone cold. "You will lead me back, or you will die."

Gregory sneered but played along. Obviously, Manuel didn't want to give away the position of the smuggling route either. So, despite Manuel's greed, he was still loyal to his band of smugglers. That could prove to be his downfall. Gregory turned and began marching through the darkness, feeling the cold head of Manuel's rifle pressed roughly into his back. He counted his steps as he thought, forcing his mind to remain calm.

His thin black shirt was damp with sweat and humidity before long, making it difficult to dislodge the small blade from its tiny holster on his bicep. Finally however, he managed to slide the knife into his hand as inconspicuously as possible. He felt its sharp edge prick the palm of his hand slightly, tiny droplets of warm blood collecting at the tips of his fingers, waiting to drop at the slightest of movements.

Gregory stopped suddenly after three hours of walking, pretending to look confused. The gun pressed into his back harder, and he knew Manuel had not been expecting Gregory to stop. He felt rather than heard Manuel stumble behind him.

"Why did you stop?" he growled.

"We took a wrong turn somewhere," Gregory lied smoothly.

"What? So where the fuck are we?"

Gregory waited for a moment before he answered, letting the panic settle into Manuel's traitorous bones.

"I don't know."

Then something blunt and heavy and painful knocked Gregory on the side of the head, causing a loud crack to rip through the air. He fell to the floor, seeing nothing but stars for a moment.

"What the fuck do you mean you don't fucking know? I'll fucking kill you right now, you British piece of shit!"

Gregory looked up just in time to see Manuel lift his rifle up like a club to strike him again in anger, and he saw his chance. With his head still spinning, Gregory pulled his knife out, jumped up, and tackled the other man with as much force as he could. In his surprise, Manuel dropped the gun and fell to the floor in a heap. Gregory fumbled with the knife for a split second, his vision still reeling from the heavy blow from earlier, but it was enough for Manuel to figure out what Gregory was planning.

He rolled over to his right as Gregory stabbed at him, causing him to miss his mark by a few inches and carve a deep gash into the other's arm by mistake. Manuel screamed, his blood pouring everywhere. Because it was dark, the streams of blood gathered in deep black pools on the dark floor around them.

It reminded Gregory vaguely of something suddenly, but he didn't have time to think about it. He sat up and, as the initial dizziness finally passed, he lunged at Manuel and plunged the dagger into his upper thigh. Manuel gave a cry that sounded like that of a pig with its throat slit. Gregory grimaced as the wildlife around them answered Manuel's cries of distress with roars and moans of their own.

Panting, Gregory crawled over to where the rifle had fallen, quickly dismantling it and dropping the pieces onto the black mulch underfoot. Manuel was clutching at his leg, cursing and vainly trying to stand. Finally, he seemed to give up, and slumped back quietly, his face screwed up in pain.

"You're next stop is Dis, Comrade," Gregory breathed out, kneeling by Manuel and roughly yanking his knife from the man's thigh. "They've a special place in Hell for Betrayers of Allys, or so I've heard."

"Please," Manuel pleaded through gritted teeth. "Please—"

But Gregory did not wait to hear what he could have possibly wanted. Without hesitation, he slit Manuel's throat. Blood splattered across Gregory's face and hands, black spots of ink marring his pale skin, but he did not look away. He watched with a detached sort of cruelty as Manuel gagged and sputtered, the black poisonous-looking liquid spilling from his leg, arm, neck and mouth wetly. Gregory's eyes followed the rivers of blood flowing on their separate paths to the floor, watched as the blood dripped from Manuel's fingertips and down his leg until it landed in sloppy puddles around his dying body. Finally, after what felt like hours, Manuel took a wet, shuddering breath and went silent.

Gregory knelt by the body for a long time after that, waiting for his own breathing and heartbeat to return to normal.

God, he needed a cigarette. Somewhere out there, The Mole was surely laughing.

After an eternity, Gregory stood—

Only to fall back down again as a wave of dizziness washed over him. The knife fell to the floor without a sound and was lost to the darkness around him. Gregory didn't notice; he couldn't even focus his eyes. A concussion, he thought vaguely, trying to keep his eyes open. He figured that his adrenaline must have overridden the pain in the immediate urgency, but now that it was gone, he was feeling the effects of Manuel's initial blow to the head.

He dropped his head to the wet mulch surrounding him, resting it on his forearm. The metallic stench of Manuel's blood reached his senses, and the urge to retch or faint was suddenly threatening to overwhelm him. It took him nearly another full minute to feel the wetness seeping down his cheek and to realize that he too, was bleeding now.

God, there was just so much blood staining the land. He wondered if the trees would drink their blood, the roots mistaking it for nourishment.

But those thoughts were drowned out by a buzzing in his head that was strangely soothing. It made him want to lay here in the bloody dirt and sleep until the trees died from the blood they were surely gorging themselves on.

The last thing Gregory thought before he passed out was the comfort of knowing that no one would be able to find him; he had led Manuel deeper into the Brazilian rain forest than he had originally had anticipated. Only a select few (Gregory being one of them) knew this area well, if at all. Yes, he would be safe here for a while, should he choose to keep the company of a corpse and those vampiric trees for a few short hours.

Then darkness overtook him, and he knew no more.

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Gregory awoke some time later to the faint, repetitive sound of dripping water. He opened his eyes and found that he was lying on a makeshift bed he did not recognize. He rubbed at his eyes, willing his brain to work again.

Almost immediately, he realized that he was in a crudely built underground chamber of some sort. The damp earth underfoot chilling the room unnaturally in the ordinarily hot Brazilian summer. He guessed that the river probably ran somewhere close by from the faint sound of rushing water permeating the quiet.

Gregory stood, his head still throbbing. His legs shook slightly under his weight, but he ignored this fact, trying to gather his bearings instead. Someone must have found Manuel and himself earlier and brought him here, most likely for questioning.

The Brazilian smugglers were fiercely loyal to their kin; they would not want to believe that Manuel had attempted to kill Gregory for money, no matter how much Gregory's death was worth. They wouldn't be too happy about Gregory's accusations; they might even be unhappy enough to kill him for his supposed disloyalty. If it had been them who found him, that is.

Then again, if the Guyanese had gotten him, he was as good as dead anyway. They would see him as another piece of outlaw scum and nothing more, something that didn't deserve the benefit of a trial or even jail time. No, they'd treat Gregory to one thing: the unfriendly ends of their loaded pistols.

He wasn't sure which outcome was more unsatisfactory. All Gregory knew for sure was that he needed to get out of this place as soon as possible. He looked around, his brain still not functioning as quickly as it normally would. A shovel sat in one darkened corner of the chamber, gnawing at Gregory's memories. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to understand the significance of that item and why it soothed his panic so.

Then he ripped his eyes open, sudden understanding washing over him.

At that exact moment, the small door on the other side of the room opened quietly. A figure stood silhouetted against the light, smoke curling up from his left hand.

"You're losing Gregory," The Mole said quietly as he stepped into the chamber.

"Am not," Gregory answered in what he considered to be a very mature manner. "One of my recruits cheated."

The Mole laughed in a way that sounded more like a growl than any real show of amusement.

"Zat is why I don't do what you do," he said slowly. "Zere is no trust."

Gregory raised an eyebrow.

"And you have trust from your employers?"

"Oui," he answered, smiling wickedly. "Zey pay me up front, you see."

Now it was Gregory's turn to laugh. He laughed harder than he had in ages (five years, if he really thought about it), and the bemused smirk on Christophe's face only made the situation seem more hilarious than perhaps it was.

"Clearly ze blow to your head had scrambled your brains, mon ami," he said when Gregory's laughter finally died down.

Gregory raised an eyebrow, a shadow of a smile still gracing his face.

"Perhaps so," he said, looking around the room. The beginnings of a plan were starting to form in his mind; he just needed to get Christophe out of the room. "But 'tis better to have scrambled brains and share a laugh with a friend, than to die bored and miserable in a hole, don't you think?"

The Mole rolled his eyes, a tiny smirk tugging at one side of his lips.

"Indeed," he answered.

Christophe turned away from him and watched the floor as he took a drag from his cigarette. From outside, Gregory heard a sharp voice call out for the Mole.

"Zey will want to interrogate you before zey kill you," Christophe said, still watching the floor carefully. "As I said, you're losing Gregory. You've lost."

"Hmm," was the only response that he gave.

The voice outside called out for the Mole again, and finally, he looked up. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, Gregory thought he saw something in them besides death and calculating indifference. But then the Mole turned and left the room without a backwards glance, shattering the moment. Gregory stole to the other end of the room the second the door closed and grabbed the shovel sitting innocently in the darkness.

He heard several voices speaking rapidly to one another just outside the door as he shoved the shovel into the soft dirt underfoot. If there was one thing he had learned from Christophe after years of friendship, it was how to dig a hole. Outside, an argument seemed to have erupted between his captors, and Gregory felt that finally some luck was being sent his way.

He stopped suddenly when his hole was almost five feet deep, remembering something. Quickly, he searched his pockets for the lighter Christophe had dropped days ago and tossed it back into the room before he continued to dig. Finally, after several minutes, he was breaking the dirt above him and pulling himself out of the manhole as quickly as he could. The river ran almost directly to his right, and as he looked around, he realized that he recognized where he was. He wasn't twenty minutes away from a small checkpoint he'd set up for situations just like these.

Gregory nearly laughed in relief. He set off at a sprint towards his destination, feeling the hot summer air blow past his face. He had built his hiding place in a dense part of the forest, not bothering to clear much of the underbrush surrounding the place. The end result meant that it was nearly impossible to spot if one didn't already know where it was.

Soon, he had barricaded himself in the small building. Gregory collapsed onto the metal floor beneath him and sighed, the shovel still firmly clasped in his right hand.

After a second of silence, he began to laugh again. Christophe was right; Gregory had nearly lost. But now, the tides had turned. Christophe would be wanting his shovel back. He would go to whatever lengths to retrieve it; even if it meant compromising his assignment.

Round one had ended in Christophe's favor. Now, it was time for round two.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, nor am I making any money off of this thing. Don't come whining to me if anything in this fic bothers you.

**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait, but this thing took for freaking ever. This chapter wasn't really in the original flow of my story, but I felt that I needed to explain some things. That was probably why I got a little writer's block here. The other chapters won't take nearly as long (I hope).

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FIVE YEARS AGO

Gregory sat on the roof of his temporary home in London, watching the busy nightlife come alive below him. Beside him lay his history textbook, useless to him now that the darkness had finally descended.

He hated trying to write his essays inside the cramped apartment complex his parents rented out; he couldn't think straight in the stuffy air. So, last year, he had taken to climbing up to the rooftop to study after school, coming down only when he was finished or when the darkness made it impossible to study.

Or, when he had other business to attend to.

Now, he sighed and lay down, his legs dangling over the edge of an old air vent, hands clasped behind his head. It was the first Friday night that he was able to claim for himself in a long time, and if he was completely honest, he had absolutely no idea what to do with the night.

It was strange, actually, to think about his impending weekend without his standard to-do list. The only thing he needed to get done was his essay for history, which he had nearly finished as the sun set. This time last week, he was hacking into a federal bank to wire money for families to buy fake passports and ID cards. The week before that, he was breaking a fellow freedom fighter out of jail, and before that, he had helped burn down a corrupt police station.

He was bored, and sitting on the roof all alone was not helping. What he needed was excitement.

As if on cue, Gregory heard what could only be a large metal object slamming against the hard concrete, followed by light footsteps.

"What a pleasant surprise Christophe," he called out into the darkness. From somewhere behind him, he heard the Mole snort.

"Zose ears will some day be your downfall Gregory," he said, coming into Gregory's line of vision and sitting by his head.

Gregory sat up and faced his friend, smiling as he did so.

"Somehow I don't think so," he said.

Christophe said nothing, he only rolled his eyes and pulled out a cigarette. Gregory ran a hand through his short cropped hair, pouting and trying to ignore the acrid odor of cigarette smoke emanating from his friend.

"I'm bored Christophe," he declared suddenly, watching the smoke curl up towards the stars above.

"So you have no assignments tonight zen?" Christophe asked quietly.

Gregory shook his head.

"None. I hardly even had homework! What about you? Have you come to recruit me for one of your shady jobs?"

"Non," he answered. "Like you, I 'ave nothing to do zis weekend."

"Well, what do you want to do?"

Christophe stared at him as if he had asked him to work a calculus problem without a calculator. Gregory suppressed a laugh that was threatening to escape his lips. When he finally decided that Christophe was too perplexed with the idea of not doing something illegal with his weekend to answer, Gregory finally laughed out loud.

"Do you know what normal eighth graders are doing right now Christophe?" he asked. Christophe shook his head, taking another drag off his cigarette as he did so. "They're out partying with high school freshman, or playing soccer out in the streets, or, I don't know, out watching movies. We should be doing things like that."

Christophe snorted, dropping his cigarette and stomping on it with the tip of his steel toed boot.

"Partying eez for ze weak minded coward," Christophe said. "Sports are for pussy beetches who cannot handle a weapon, and movies are for faggots."

Gregory stood, shaking the loose dirt off his crisp white shirt. He picked up Christophe's shovel to gain the boy's attention and headed towards the ledge of the building.

"Come on then, the movies it is."

Christophe got up and followed him reluctantly. Gregory bit his lip in an attempt to suppress the smile bubbling up his face.

"I am not a fucking faggot Gregory," Christophe snapped, grabbing his shovel and yanking it roughly from Gregory's grasp.

Gregory only laughed and leaped off the top of the building. He landed neatly in the fire escape one floor below him and smirked up at Christophe, as if in challenge. Christophe followed him down, landing slightly off balance because of the shovel.

"Are you a coward or a pussy bitch then?" Gregory taunted, pulling on the hilt of the shovel to help upright his friend.

"Never," Christophe growled, yanking his shovel out of Gregory's grasp and jumping down to the landing below them.

Gregory followed, a wide smirk on his face. After two more stories, they got bored of jumping and climbed down a storm drain the rest of the way. They stole through dark back alleys to reach the old movie theater, beating up thugs who thought it a good idea to try to mug them. Christophe laughed every time he smashed his shovel against the side of their faces, and they continued on.

They snuck into the movie because Christophe complained that only pussies paid for that sort of thing. He complained throughout the entire film as well, first about the shoddy seating, then about the story line, and even about the mediocre actors in the independent film. Gregory had to threaten his shovel with harm just to quiet him down. Which was actually the wrong thing to say, as Christophe burst out into peals of laughter right as the main character died.

Gregory sighed and massaged his temples impatiently. The paying movie-goers were starting to glance back at them angrily, so Gregory did the first thing he could think of to shut Christophe up. He leaned over and kissed him hard on the lips.

"_Maintenant s'il te plait, mon cheri_," Gregory whispered against his lips. He could feel Christophe's hot breath against his cheek, smelling vaguely of smoke. "_Ferme ta bouche._" (1)

"Fuck you Gregory," Christophe said with a scowl on his face.

He pushed Gregory back into his seat roughly and grabbed hold of his hand, lacing their fingers together even as he turned back to watch the rest of the movie. To Gregory's credit, Christophe remained relatively silent for the last ten minutes of the film.

"You, my friend, are horrible," Gregory muttered as the end credits finally appeared on screen.

"And you, mon ami, are behaving far too seriously after watching such a stupeed movie."

He exited the cinema, lighting a cigarette as he did so. Gregory rolled his eyes and followed.

Christophe, it seemed, was in a strangely good mood after said 'stupeed' movie. He dragged his shovel after him lazily as they passed through the darkness, humming a soft tune to himself as he smoked another cigarette. Gregory was silent by his side, trying to forget the taste of Christophe's lips and the feeling of his calloused hand against his skin.

"And just what has put you in such a good mood, Christophe?" he finally asked.

"Nothing of importance," was his only answer as he flicked his cigarette away.

He turned back to Gregory with a predatory gleam in his eyes, raised an eyebrow, and continued on. Gregory knew that look, had seen it countless times before when they had worked together on a mission. Gregory felt himself tense, suddenly unsure of himself. It was normally Christophe's way of telling Gregory to be on the lookout; he must have heard something Gregory did not. They walked for several more minutes in silence, with only the scraping of Christophe's shovel against the pavement to keep them company.

"Tell me Gregory," Christophe said suddenly, picking up his shovel and strapping it onto his back. "Eef I were to attack you right now, how would you defend yourself?"

Gregory stopped, frowning as he watched Christophe turn to face him with a smirk on his face.

"What do you mean?"

Christophe looked around, his eyes searching pitch black corners of the alley they had entered.

"I doubt zat you are concealing any weapons under zose clothes of yours."

Gregory's frown deepened. It was true, he was unarmed at the moment. His thin white shirt wasn't good for concealing a knife or gun, and he doubted that he would have been able to hide anything in his pale blue skinny jeans. Gregory clenched his fists, his eyes sweeping around the alley now too.

"And you?" he asked instead of answering. He hoped that Christophe couldn't hear the faint worry that was starting to grip his insides. "I'm sure you're properly armed to kill me right where I stand, then?"

Christophe laughed.

"Always, mon ami," he said. In one fluid motion, he pulled up his pant leg, revealing a small black holster strapped to his ankle. Out of it he unsheathed a long knife, its dirty blade glinting dangerously in the moonlight. "You know how to use it, non?"

Gregory nodded, frowning. Christophe merely raised one of his sharp eyebrows again and held the knife out to Gregory, hilt first.

"I don't understand," he said quietly, taking the knife from his friend and inspecting its blade carefully.

"You 'ave been deestracted tonight," Christophe said simply, unstrapping his shovel from his back and assuming a fighting stance. " I bet you didn't even notice zat we were being followed."

Gregory hadn't noticed. His thoughts had been consumed by his comrade since they left the movie theater; he had no hope of hearing any enemies being as distracted as he had been that night. Gregory shook himself; he needed his wits about him. After a moment, he heard what Christophe must have noticed ages ago. Quick, quiet footsteps were whispering their hushed conversation across the rooftops high above them. Gregory frowned. It wasn't like him to miss something so obvious.

"Are you ready?" Christophe asked quietly as the footsteps above them stopped abruptly. "Zey are coming."

Gregory nodded, gripping the knife in his hand tightly. His eyes swept across the alley again, this time searching for anything out of place. An emergency fire escape ladder wobbled silently in the dark not four feet from where he stood. From somewhere to his right, he thought he heard someone fall lightly to the unpaved road around them. Gregory felt his pulse begin to quicken as his body tensed for battle.

But for once in his lifetime, Gregory didn't want to fight. The thought made him falter for a second, his confidence fleeing him abruptly. He had been doing this all his life; it was what he lived for. Gregory wanted a world that was safe and just and fair; he had been striving for that in various ways since he was eight. Now however, he felt tired of it suddenly, as if he were living someone else's life and only just realized it. The tip of his knife wavered slightly as he stood stock still, waiting for something, anything to distract him from his mutinous thoughts.

A loud clang suddenly rang throughout the alley. Turning, he saw that Christophe stood by a shadowy dumpster, his shovel clearly having just been smashed against it. Half shrouded in shadows, Gregory went unnoticed as a group of men swathed in black suddenly appeared, their gazes all locked onto Christophe.

Christophe had that gleam in his eyes again; like he could hardly wait to spill their blood. Gregory felt a flame of jealousy. He hadn't felt so exhilarated on the job in almost a year. One of the men suddenly lunged at Christophe, and the fight began. Gregory took a deep breath and joined in.

In the ensuing fight, Gregory slashed through clothes and skin; he blocked and parried and stabbed as if he were handling a rapier instead of a small knife. He used his bear hands when the knife was roughly kicked out of his hands and still, he felt not one ounce of joy.

Christophe had already left most of their attackers as a bloody mess on the floor when the two remaining suddenly turned on Gregory.

"Stop," one said in a deep voice. "He only wanted the blond killed. Leave the other."

Gregory felt utterly useless as the two men turned to him, raising their guns and steel bats. He had been a fool to leave his house unarmed; he had lost Christophe's knife ten minutes ago, and now, it seemed, someone wanted him dead.

"Sheet," he heard Christophe mutter.

Seconds later there was a small clatter and a loud hissing sound. Christophe appeared by his side suddenly, grabbing Gregory by the wrist and pulling him away as a cloud of noxious gas began to seep into the air. Their attackers choked and gagged, yelling and cursing at one another. Their voices soon were lost and still Gregory and Christophe kept running, Gregory's eyes stinging all the while.

Finally, after what felt like hours, they stopped. They were in the shadow of a tall apartment complex, it's dim lights revealing the dull lives of its boring inhabitants.

"So you just happened to have a canister of tear gas with you?" Gregory asked between pants of breath.

Christophe managed a weak chuckle as he lit a cigarette.

"Oui," he said. "I always carry zem around. You never know when you need to make a quick escape."

Gregory sighed. He leaned against the gray building and looked up into the night sky, feeling more exhausted than he should have.

"You nearly got yourself keeled tonight," Christophe said quietly, tilting his head back and releasing a cloud of smoke up into the night.

"I know."

"You know," Christophe repeated, flicking his cigarette into the darkness. "Eez zat all you 'ave to say for yourself Gregory? You need to pull your head out of your fucking ass before you keel yourself."

Gregory sighed and rubbed his eyes roughly.

"I know that Christophe," he answered. "Do you really think me so foolish? I understand the danger I put myself into tonight, but—"

Gregory stopped, unable to finish his sentence. How was he supposed to tell this hardened criminal that he knew almost as well as himself? He knew what Christophe would say to him, and it frightened him to hear his only real friend's derision.

"_Mais tu n'es pas satisfait de ton travail," _Christophe supplied quietly. (2)

"Yes," he said. "I'm not happy with this. Christophe, there was once a time I could eat, sleep, and breathe this," he gestured wildly into the air. "But I don't know anymore. I'm so _sick_ of it."

Gregory put one hand up to his right temple and turned away from Christophe. He didn't think he could stand seeing the expression that he knew would be plastered across Christophe's sharp features. For he knew exactly what he'd see if he turned around right now. Christophe was like an extension of himself; Gregory could nearly predict every brusque statement, every cold stare, every periodic cigarette change his friend could possibly make. He hated it suddenly; he hated being able to understand and predict and know everything there was to know about one person.

"So leave," Christophe said coolly.

Gregory felt a sudden flash of annoyance. There was a sharp edge to the way he'd said that; as if Christophe had meant it as a challenge. As if he didn't believe Gregory. Well, so be it. That was what Gregory wanted, after all. Wasn't it?

"Fine," Gregory said shortly.

He turned and strode purposefully to the edge of the sidewalk, where a dim lamppost created a tiny pool of yellow light. He turned back and was momentarily startled when he caught sight of Christophe. Perhaps it was just because he was half hidden in darkness, but for a second it seemed as though his friend's expression had melted somewhat. From where Gregory stood, he could see something that looked almost like a wistful sort of affection in Christophe's grim smile. Their eyes met, and Gregory was suddenly reminded of the moment back in the theater, when Christophe had laced their fingers together as if it had been the most natural motion in the world. For a second Gregory reconsidered. If he walked away now, it would be for good. If he chose to just leave, then there was a chance he'd never even see Christophe again.

But then something in Christophe's expression hardened again; his eyes became like shards of frozen amber, and his mouth turned the sad smile into a cold, ironic smirk. He took two steps back, his cold eyes never leaving Gregory's. Then, without another word, he disappeared into the darkness.

Gregory stood where he was for a long time after that, staring into the alley Christophe had disappeared into and trying not to think of anything.

It wasn't until he was curled up in his suffocating mattress and was staring up at his dark ceiling did a strange thought occur to him. The tune that Christophe had been humming to himself as they exited the theater; Gregory had finally placed it. It was the lullaby Gregory's mother used to sing to him when he was younger; the lullaby he had taught to Christophe when they still lived in Colorado, nearly six years ago.

Gregory's heart clenched in a way he'd never felt it do before; he kept hold of that thought as he forced himself to succumb to sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gregory had lasted two months. He buried himself in his schoolwork and refused to answer any phone calls. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore, but he was taking his time away from Christophe to find out. Gregory had realized that there was something intoxicating about his friend's presence, and that if he had any hope of figuring out what it was that had exasperated him, he needed to stay away from Christophe for a while.

So that was why Gregory was sitting at his small desk, trying vainly to concentrate on his algebra homework. It was relatively simple, but his mind kept wandering. Just that afternoon someone had approached him at school, hoping he would help smuggle illegal immigrants into Great Britain. Gregory had had to calmly explain to the young man that he wasn't in that business anymore, marveling at the way he felt the smallest hint of despair as the man walked away. He had almost given in then, wondering suddenly why he had ever given it up.

On his way home too, he had been approached by someone hoping to convince him to help with the rapidly disintegrating situation in Israel. Gregory had faltered in his conviction then as well, feeling a spark of interest for the first time in ages. He told the man that he wasn't sure, and the man had told him to think about it; that he'd ask again in a fortnight to see if Gregory was still interested.

It wasn't until he got back to his dank room that his resolve had strengthened. Strange, when he was alone in the quiet of his room, he was plainly able to see the futility of his life. However, when someone would ask him for help, he would still feel the beginnings of excitement flow through his veins. But the feeling would quickly fade away again when whoever had approached him walked off.

Gregory didn't know what he wanted. That was perhaps the most infuriating thought of all.

And he wasn't supposed to be thinking about this. He was supposed to be doing his homework. That had been the plan, and it had been working smoothly. For the most part, at least. That is, until Christophe had decided to come barging into his life again.

Gregory hadn't heard him sneak into his bedroom; he had been too busy ripping his nearly complete homework to shreds in exasperation. It was Christophe's smell that had finally alerted Gregory of his presence. The faint odor of cigarette smoke and dirt and dried blood reached his nose, and Gregory looked up sharply from his textbook.

Christophe was watching him with a strange expression on his face. His shirt was damp around his midriff, and the ankles of his jeans were nearly ripped to shreds. Blood was leaking down from his right calf and left knee, dripping innocently onto Gregory's polished wooden floors.

Despite his bloody attire, the thing that bothered Gregory the most about his friend's appearance was the conspicuously missing shovel. That, and the fact that he wasn't smoking. He didn't even have a new cigarette between his fingers or tucked behind his ear. Gregory swallowed his sudden shock and looked away.

"What do you want?" he asked as calmly as he could muster.

Christophe didn't answer for a long time. Gregory focused on his breathing and on the blood that was suddenly pounding in his ears. He would not look up.

"Gregory," Christophe said quietly.

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, hating how that single word sent a shudder up his spine. Gregory would not look up. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the image of Christophe leaning over the desk in front of him, his blood stained hands leaving fingerprints on his math book.

"What do you want?" he asked again, this time with a tiny waver in his voice.

"I need your help," Christophe said quietly.

Finally, Gregory met his eyes. They were the same shade of amber as always, but now they seemed to catch him in a whirlpool of mixed emotions. He was trapped.

"Don't you remember?" he asked almost bitterly. "I'm out of that business."

"Oui, I remember," came the response, "but I still need your help."

Gregory stood and stormed to his window, unsure whether he wanted to slam it shut or jump out of it and run.

"What do you think I am Christophe?" he finally asked.

He continued to resolutely stare out into the crisp night, watching pedestrians and vehicles meander around in the semi-darkness. He was trying to ignore the way he could hear Christophe's footsteps creep up behind him, trying to ignore his own thundering heartbeat that was so loud he was sure Christophe could hear it. He took a deep breath, trying not to drown in his pulse that suddenly thumped in time the Christophe's approaching footsteps.

"You abandon me for two months, only to come back looking for me to help you with a job?" he asked because he needed something tangible to hold onto, lest he be pulled under by the power of his friend's mere presence. "What is it this time? Do you need me to translate what some Somalian hostage is asking? Perhaps you would want me to short-circuit another high security alarm system for you? I—"

"Fuck Gregory, just leesten to me!" Christophe cut in, placing a hand on his shoulder and roughly turning him around. Just like that, he was trapped under Christophe's intense gaze again.

For a second he forgot what he was arguing about, so caught up in the warmth Christophe's palm provided to his shoulder and the wistful glint in his eyes that made the mercenary look uncharacteristically vulnerable. This was the reason Gregory had been avoiding Christophe. He couldn't think straight around him anymore. He couldn't...

He couldn't seem to stay away.

"What is it then?" he heard himself ask.

"I 'ave to ambush someone in Whitechapel, but I am not familiar with ze area. You did reconnaissance zere, non?"

"Yes, two months ago. But Christophe, you know—"

"Eet's not for a job Gregory. Eet—" Christophe stopped himself and ran a hand through his wild hair. Gregory wondered when he had run out of cigarettes; he looked as if he could use one. "My business took me to Ireland this time; zat is where I should be right now. But zen I was ambushed by a pack of cock sucking cowards, thinking eet would be fucking funny to fuck with 'a child' as zey put eet."

Gregory wasn't sympathetic.

"So? I assume you bested them as always? What does this have to do with why you're here? Why aren't you in Ireland?"

Christophe scowled even as a faint blush crept over his features. Now Gregory's interest was piqued. Christophe never blushed, not even when he'd been caught stealing money from the church collection plate by the priest that one time (it was the only time his mother had forced him to go to mass; he had been five at the time).

"I got zem all, but for one beetch who fled like a pussy when ze first of zem went down. Eet wasn't until I left zat I realized ze asshole had taken my shovel."

Gregory frowned, sure he must have misunderstood. Christophe couldn't have seriously abandoned a mission for a shovel. It was ludicrous.

"Christophe, did you honestly just desert your mission in Ireland for your fucking _shovel_?"

And was it just his imagination, or did Christophe look suddenly uncomfortable?

"I do not theenk you understand the importance of ze shovel," Christophe said in a most serious tone. "I have been tracking zis beetch for two weeks now. I assume zat my 'boss' of ze moment eez not at all happy with my sudden disappearance."

"Christophe, I can't believe you," Gregory said with a tinge of fond exasperation in his voice. "It's a shovel. Why is it so important to you?"

"Zat's none of your concern," he answered sharply. "Ze quicker we recover eet, ze quicker I can get back to my job. Weel you help me?"

Gregory wanted to say no, he really did. He wanted to tell Christophe exactly what he had told the two strangers earlier that same day, but Christophe was different. He had always been different. And his mind had already reached his decision the second he met Christophe's eyes again.

"All right."

Three uncomfortable hours later found them walking down the relative emptiness that was Vallance road, Gregory looking for anything he might be able to say to ease the tension between them.

"I was offered a job in Israel today," he said quietly.

"I thought you were out of business," Christophe answered, lighting a cigarette from a pack they'd stolen from a convenience store five minutes ago.

"I was. I am, or rather, I've been sorting that out." When Christophe said nothing, he continued. "He said he'd contact me in two weeks for my answer."

"So when do you leave?"

"What makes you think I'll just accept the mission?" Gregory snapped. He turned sharply and began trudging down the narrow street to his right. He stared at the closed boutiques on the other end of the street, watching for when they suddenly made way for a mosque. "I don't just take every mission offered to me. I have morals and opinions that need to be taken into consideration first. And as you remember, I'm out of business. Still, I could have qualms about the assignment or something that would prevent me from accepting. I'm not just some hooker, or mercen—"

Gregory stopped abruptly, realizing a second too late who he was talking about. He cast a sideways glance at Christophe, who pulled the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the empty street. He wasn't looking at Gregory; instead, he was watching the faces of the empty buildings around them.

"So zat's what you think of me," he said quietly.

"No! Christophe—"

"We're here," he said tersely, cutting off any apology Gregory might have had in mind.

He crossed the street, his cold amber eyes set on the orange building darkened by the night. Gregory sighed and followed him silently.

They didn't speak a word to one another after that. Christophe seemed to have reevaluated Gregory's usefulness, as he asked for neither information nor directions once they entered the darkened mosque. Gregory bit his lip to keep himself from saying anything stupid. They encountered no obstacles, no guards, no priests as they searched the building, which put Gregory more on guard than anything. He wanted to say something about it to Christophe, but decided against it.

They finally located a private room somewhere on the second floor, where a short man was praying quietly on a small carpet. He was bowing towards the north, which was conveniently facing away from the doorway, so the man didn't notice them. And there, leaning innocently against an overstuffed bookcase, was Christophe's shovel. Christophe motioned for Gregory to enter the room silently, while he pulled out a butterfly knife from his pocket and opened it. Gregory placed a hand on his arm, effectively stilling the mercenary.

"Wait," Gregory whispered. "He's praying."

Christophe yanked his arm away roughly, as if Gregory had burned him. A mixture of emotions flashed across his face, and it took Gregory a moment to realize Christophe wasn't just angry; he was angry, outraged and _hurt._

"Eet doesn't matter to me," Christophe replied bitterly. "Remember? I'm no better zan a common street whore to you. I don't have qualms about killing zis man while he prays to his fucking God, do I?"

Before Gregory had a chance to answer him, Christophe crept into the room and landed a well aimed kick at the man's head. A strange 'oomph' escaped his lips before he fell back down into a heap. The poor bastard probably had no idea what hit him. Christophe crossed the room like a tiger on the prowl, and snatched up his shovel triumphantly. He grinned as he strapped it to his back, seeming to forget that just a few seconds ago he had been angry with Gregory. Gregory smiled as he watched his friend, mesmerized by the sight of Christophe's lips upturned into a rare smile.

They left the room silently, but had no sooner turned the corner when they were met by a pair of priests. They froze for a second when they caught sight of Gregory and Christophe, then one of them shouted something in Arabic and the other scrambled off towards the fire escape.

Quickly, Gregory unstrapped a small dagger from a holster hidden on his forearm and threw it at the man who had initially shouted. It hit him in the space between his shoulder blades, and he fell to the floor, skidding a few feet and tumbling down the stairs loudly. Christophe had already incapacitated the other priest with a well-aimed shovel to the face. He stared at Gregory with an eyebrow raised. Gregory felt himself flush.

"Nice throw," was the only thing he said.

Gregory ducked his head to hide the smile that crept up his face.

"Well, I didn't want to be caught unprepared this time."

They hurried down the stairs after that, Gregory stopping only to pull his knife out of his fallen opponent's back. Soon they were outside again, walking quietly side by side.

"I have morals," Christophe said suddenly, pulling another cigarette from his pocket and sticking it in his mouth. "Zey are just more... ambiguous zan yours."

"You can't have ambiguous morals, Christophe," Gregory answered quietly, hoping that they could just drop the whole issue. "Either you believe in something or you don't. There are no gray areas between what's right and what is wrong, what's just and unjust."

There was something in Christophe's tone that Gregory didn't like. He would rather just steer clear of this conversation and pretend that he'd never said anything. To his surprise, Christophe laughed.

"An activist through and through." He turned his piercing gaze back to Gregory, his expression serious. Then, instead of lighting the cigarette in his mouth, he stuck it behind his right ear for safekeeping. "Zere aren't many things I have problems with doing. As you mentioned earlier, my political beliefs don't play a part in my taking an assignment. Ze only thing zat matters eez how much I get paid." Gregory opened his mouth to reply to this, but Christophe held up his hand. Gregory snapped his jaw shut again. "But zere are some things zat I will not do, no matter how much money I'm offered."

"Like what?"

But Christophe didn't answer. He turned into an alleyway suddenly, casting a glance over his shoulder to where Gregory had stopped. The light from a nearby street light drew sharp shadows across Christophe's face, and Gregory hated to admit it, but at that moment he didn't think he'd ever seen anything quite so beautiful. Then he was swallowed up by the darkness, and Gregory had to follow him into the alley.

"Do you know how many times someone has attempted to hire me to keel you?" he asked, an unidentifiable emotion crossing his face before it was replaced again by his impassive stare.

"How many?" Gregory asked, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

"Dozens," he replied quietly, anger suddenly lacing his voice. He turned and took a step closer towards Gregory, who now found himself quite incapable of movement. "So many zat I've lost count by now. And every fucking time I tell zem ze same thing. Zat zey can fucking shove zeir money up zeir fucking asses, for all ze good it would do."

"I thought you were a hit man," Gregory said, watching as Christophe approached him. He felt the cool brick of a surrounding building press up against his back, and wondered when he'd started moving.

"I am," he replied easily. "But for some fucking reason, my morals won't let me fucking keel you."

They were less than an inch apart now; Gregory could feel his friend's hot breath against his cheek. He stared into Christophe's sharp eyes, almost afraid to ask his next question.

"And why is that?" he said weakly.

Christophe made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat, frustration flaring to life. He braced himself against the wall, placing both hands on either side of Gregory's head. He was effectively trapped.

"Why do you fucking think, beetch?" he asked and crashed his lips over Gregory's.

Like everything about Christophe, the kiss was sharp, fierce, almost desperate, and had Gregory moaning from its sheer intensity. Christophe's tongue forced its way past Gregory's lips, and for a heartbeat they struggled for dominance until Gregory's mind became hazy with pleasure, and he let Christophe take control.

Eventually they parted, and Christophe started nibbling along Gregory's jaw, biting hard enough to ensure that the marks would be seen days later.

"You'll go to Israel," Christophe muttered into his neck.

It took Gregory a moment to understand what Christophe was talking about, and when he did, he frowned.

"What makes you think that?" he panted, bringing his arms up to wrap around Christophe's neck. He had a feeling that this was one of those conversations that would end with Christophe disappearing into the darkness, and Gregory wanted to make sure that didn't happen. "I'm out of business, remember?"

"No you're not," Christophe replied just as he found a particularly sensitive spot on Gregory's neck to run his tongue over. "You never were. Eef zat was true, you wouldn't be carrying around a knife on your arm, or zat gun strapped to your leg."

Suddenly, he pulled away, pulling Gregory's arms away from him as he did so. Gregory let him go, feeling his arms fall limply to his sides. Gregory's body was screaming at him to touch, kiss, feel Christophe, but he didn't. He only watched as Christophe took a deep breath and stepped further away. He watched as Christophe turned and walked off, slowly disappearing into the dark. He didn't look back.

He watched as Christophe walked out of his life again, this time perhaps, for good.

Gregory sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Christophe was right. He was always right. Gregory would take the job in Israel because, as much as he hated what he did, he couldn't seem to live without it.

And because it was the only way he could be sure of seeing Christophe again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**A/N:**

French phrases roughly translate to:

"Now please, my love," Gregory whispered against his lips. "Shut your mouth."

"But you are not happy with your work," Christophe supplied quietly.


End file.
